My passion

In my head there is a beat. One that i can't quite shake. One that makes my toes tap and one that makes my head bob. One that makes my fingertips drum and one that beats to a song unsung. It's called rhythm. It's called life. It is my life. My beat is music. Underneath my knees there is something that makes my legs jump. At the base of my spine my hips swirl. My eyes blink to a percussive force and I do nothing but let it happen. I shake and jiggle walking down the street a smile on my face, hot cement on my feet. My gift, my blessin; my dreams. Music. Dear music beat in me till my breath no longer draws and silence fills my ears for once and for all. Until then, my dear friend, pulse in me, inspire me, draw me in, endow me, allow me.

Video of Death

Sometimes you view things that you don't necessarily want to see or ever need to see. I just watched a video of murder. A murder. A gang of men in some Indian country gathered around a woman beaten badly. She had been spit upon, stomped in the face, punched, kicked, drug and the final blow was a cement block being dropped twice on her head. MURDER. Viewed not discretely but on a public forum, on Facebook. The issues that surround this are so many: why is there a crowd of men beating a woman to death and noone stopping them-noone. What kind of sick person thinks this is okay to put on the internet to share with the rest of the world? What kind of person picks this up off a site and places it on a public forum for everyone to see? And what kind of person does it make me that I just viewed it? It had an affect. It made me so angry and sick to my stomach that i'm not well. I probably won't be well for a minute. Where and in what society is it perfectly okay to do this? I mean are we really that barbaric and the need for blood that severe that this is okay. In America, women have fought an intense battle to be seen as equal to their counterpartse-men. Their advances have more than double women in other places. Although some feel that the battle has not gained much ground-there are not community supported mobs robbing the lives of a woman. Or are there? The way this woman was treated was not human, was not animal. It was evil how they treated her and even if it was a case of adultery: when is this, death, a suitable punishment. The fact that another human video taped this and I watched this, even if it was just a small portion, what does THAT say about our society? Are we truly that hungry for voyeurism and real life "entertainment" that we will watch anything? And was this posting meant to be a warning to others? Kinda like back in the day when the town would gather to watch a hanging? I would always wonder what sick fucks would watch that? Who willingly volunteers for mental torture? I write with such rage and fury because myheart has never experienced anything like that. I have a soul that is very sensitive to other people and their energies and to watch that and feel it is a bit too much. My heart breaks for humanity. It crumples for all the strong women in my life who fight for rights and this is some bullshit that should have never happened. I'm off to reset my soul.

Today I was sitting in a mall. Perhaps I was even enjoying the smooth, exotic, yet familiar taste of a Chic-Fil-A sandwhich and waffle fries when I was taken aback by one of my full figured black sisters. Endulge me if you will. I glance up slowly from dipping my waffle frie into the tangy sweetness of the polynesian sauce when my eyes were flooded with visions of spaghetti straps and backfat, lo rise jeans and a white lace thong. There was a gag. A drop of fry. A "Shit". Then an even more audible "REALLY!?!" Thusly, I write this letter to my fellow Lane Bryant shoppers and enjoyers of buffets and victims of genetics:

Friends:
I believe in taking risks and being daring in clothing choices-my onesie for example, but I need you to realize that we can't wear everything. We should dress to accentuate our positives: beautiful cleavage, nice legs, smoldering eyes, structured face, nice hands, pretty wrists; those things beautiful on us beautiful. Those things that we keep under wraps: our backfat that's the only thing i really care about.

Love,
Me

Breath

The sounds of the city are slowly creeping into my cracked open windows. The melody of honking horns and chugging trucks and people yelling and babies giggling is harmonizing with the static sounds playfully leaping from my radio. The whisps of steam float above my coffee. The linen curtains flap in the breeze. I sit at my seats edge, legs open staring down between my legs..thinking nothing except how much i love the underwear im wearing. My head rests heavily on my shoulders. The weight of my thoughts are starting to take a physical manifestation. They are weighing as heavy as the feeling of lead in my heart right now. He hurt me. Brakes squeal in the distance and i'm snapped out of my daze. I look up. Facebook is staring at my face. Oh look Victor just landed a callback. I momentarily rejoice. I should call him. Damn, I can't shake this. Before I know it my head is back at 0 and i now notice that a pedicure may be in order. I chuckle at this thought. I start to see way beyond the exposed cuticle. I glance down past the hardwood floors, my gaze is reaching beyond the apartment below and somehow my soul attaches to this and before you know it, i'm tip toeing barefoot down the street.

I look to my left and to my right and the whole world has frozen. The whole world has waited for me to be here, right now, at this exact moment and it scares me. I catch out of my right eye frozen limbs, various forms of people in action. I notice Silence. The only rhythm, the only music I can hear right now is the pulsing of my blood in my body, the percussive beating of my breath..my cells playing bumper cars off each other and i can even hear the faintest sound of my DNA exploring mysteries and releasing information constantly controlling me and allowing me to be here right now. I gasp. I look ahead and I run. I run and freedom is kissing my face. Flowing past me is all the silly things that bind me. I run for my insecurites. I run for my non acceptance of my sheer greatness. I run for a family that I felt should have guided me more in life. I run for those days when i've not been able to eat. I run for my pride that wouldn't allow me to ask for help. I run for being an embarassment. I run for hating myself. I run for giving myself to men in order to understand beauty for increments of time. I run for ancestors whose lessons have shaped my life. I run for running when i get nervous. I run for being so damn needing of others. I run alone. The world around me is still frozen solid. The flow of life in me is not ending. I don't grow tired. My spirit not weary. My heart no longer hurt. I run. I stop at the top of a hill. And I laugh. I laugh with arms spread wide. My chest held high. I laugh and I scream. I recieve it. I recieve you. I recieve this. I laugh until tears stream down my face. I am OK. It's gonna be OK. I am OK. I am OK. I am OK. I AM LOVED. I AM LOVE. I turn and run as if fire is attached to my hills. I run so quickly that I fail to notice that the world around me has recaptured breath. And following me, trailing me is the beautiful sound of LIFE. I hear and feel life behind me, but slowly catching up with me and surrounding me.

I run so quickly that my feet lift off the ground. I hover above stairs, I pass through the apt below me, through the floorboards and re-enter myself. My head floats without the heaviness of before and as my gaze shifts from floor to the computer desk to the computer screen, I breathe. My hands raise and hover above the keypad for a second before typing...

Today I accept life and I'm okay. And today,I know, I can make it without you and this and everything is the world can throw to me. I am loved.

a BOY story

Here's the story of a little boy who spent hours resting in a window looking out dreaming blankly; seeing. A boy who spent minutes tracing the indentions left on his arm from the sill. A boy who spent hours in a mirror singing to himself. Who created poems about crickets. Who showered for hours just to have alone time. A story of a little boy obsessed with smelling pretty because he wanted to be like his mommy. A little boy who labored hours upon hours to be good in sports to keep his daddy smiling. A little boy who lied so his sister never got punished. A trusting one who ate mudpies at her request. A small one that could sit for hours beside his grandma and not say anything just stealing glances as she looked away, never talking really-listening, laughing, and learning and staring. A little boy who pinned clotheshangers to his shirt so as his mother did the laundry he could be her very special helper. A boy who peered around corners and cupped his ears to hear what the adults were saying and what kind of music his dad was listening to-he later would remember that music and listen carefully to remember his dad's smell when he was no longer around. This is a slight story about a boy who remembered thinking he could kiss the clouds whenever the swing went high enough. A little lad who, to this day, can feel his grandmothers fingertips on the small on his back. Who could close his eyes and still hear her singing- a sound that he would miss more than anything in this whole world. A child who laughed at everything and rarely cried at anything. A kid who played football by himself for hours, who probably to the masses looked like he was bat shit crazy. A boy who started every morning with a song in his heart and ended every evening with a lullaby on his lips. This is a story of an alone child. A kid who lived, laughed, sang, danced and dreamed-alone. Surrounded by others he was physically never left, yet his heart always felt such solitude. A blessing and a curse. The gift to entertain himself and the need to constantly be surrounded was his downfall.
He later decided that misfortune would not be his. He took his freedom and chased a dream and stared at stars and kissed the heavens at yellow lights and always smiled. Sometimes sorry weighed heavy behind his brown eyes. But who has time for that he thought, so he continued to smile. He continued to hurt, but most importantly, he'd smile. He grew tired. One night a star told him everything was gonna be alright as it twinkled above his first apartment during a time when the sorry was winning the battle in his eyes. A tear clouded his eye and cleansed his soul and he took a breath and heard a song and smelled comfort and rested patiently.

Crashing...

Picture this: Lincoln Center. Newly renovated. Green everywhere. A peace that quiets even the bzzz of the bees. The sun is kissing my face, the spring breeze is tickling my neck and a light roar comes from the reflective pool in front of me. In the distance I see Julliard. On my cheek I feel the hot warmth of a tear. I trace it's voyage pore by pore as it exits my ducts and descends, to where I don't know, but the journey is slow and warming. To most people this building is just that-a building. To me this building is a city block of my young dreams. Cement blocks of hope. Windows that look into the future. A structure that captured all of my sent prayers and kept them secret. All I've ever dreamed....and yet I stand on the outside looking in, dreams silenced, reality proves yet again that she has won.

My obsession with dance started early. I remember always dancing in circles in my room. No one there but me and music. I remember stopping dead in my tracks if anybody on TV was doing something more advance than walking. I would wrap a sheet around my little waist and become a ballerina. I'd put a stick in my mouth and be an african dancer. I'd put bottle caps on the bottom of my sneakers, my mother HATED this, and move my feet really fast like I was tapping. Oh, what a mess. Oh, how I begged to be in class. We couldn't afford it. That was that. The next week I joined every show choir, glee club, botany team...anything just hoping that I could learn something.(there was a cute guy in the botany class...don't judge) Eventually I got really good. Dance captain for the show choir and glee club, I even choreographed a musical in junior year. The most exciting part was that freshmen year a friend's father saw my passion for dance and became my sponsor and enrolled me in tap, ballet, and modern! With my passion for dance and good training...I picked it up quickly. My teacher said I needed more intense training and she suggested some programs and schools...one of them, Julliard.

Long story short...I went and auditioned! They said I had good technique, the passion was there, but I was fat. What I failed to mention was that I had started to gain weight when I was 11 and could never lose it. I worked hard, my technique was good, I was just, well fat. That three letter word devestated me. I stopped dancing for a great while. I stopped loving myself. I overate to deal and gained 60lbs in doing so. I hated myself for being me. I've recently rediscovered my love for dance. The passion never left me. The joy took a seat on the back burner. My belief in people did go. I was confused as to how someone whose world was dance could destroy the dreams of a fellow dancer. Maybe I'm not as resolved with this issue as I had hoped. I zip up my bag, I look down at my thighs...so that's where the tear landed. I wipe the spot, throw my chin up and keep it moving. Sometimes consistently fighting the opposition is tiring and so you resolve to let it just be. and it's done.

Indecent Exposure my ass!

Here's the thing...

They got me again girl! Those damn park cops have a bounty on my head and some sort of free ham everytime they arrest me. At this point next years holiday season is covered. I'll set it all up for you and allow you to make any conclusion you want!

Picture this:
A sensible mid morning dew rising off the grass. The sun kissing the clouds away. A backpack. An Ipod. Short shorts a bare chest. Got it so far. Now hear this: birds chirping. The soothing lull of the river waves smacking against the pier, a faint laugh of a child, the piercing sound of "Ma'am could you please put your shirt back on? You are not allowed to be topless in this park"

See: Rage and Disbelief

See: A damn cop hovering over me..repeating the exact same phrase found in the paragraph above.

I said sorry? he said ma'am! I said i'm a boy. He said and i'm the fucking pope. I said well hi fucker, how bout you stop touching kids. He said...well nothing he just hit me in the head with a nearby bucket.

I said. ow!

As he put me in handcuffs my man tits slung left to right, up and down. He said indecent exposure and i said why because I was sunning my man pancakes. He said, yes!

Honey a girl can't get a break! At least during my incarceration i'll get that prison body...hot!
Oh Vay!